


Kindness

by Yaoiflame9



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Anton Ferner - Freeform, Legend of the Galactic Heroes, M/M, Paul von Oberstein - Freeform, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaoiflame9/pseuds/Yaoiflame9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Paul von Oberstein hadn't died?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I only own this work.

The room was dimly lit, with only a desk lamp to banish the darkness of Heinessenpolis, when he had seen him standing by the window, in deep thought. A graceful, tall figure, with the gray cape of a Fleet Admiral, adding beauty to his stature. Ferner felt turmoil within himself, the static filling the air as the storm was approaching, many days from then, but still, his skin was able to feel it, the skin on his scalp was getting strange goosebumps, and in the pit of his stomach was rooted this strange discomfort. The time was relentlessly flowing. History was about to turn the gyres of events at an even faster rate. 

Long and hard had he thought about the man into whose service he had been sent—Paul von Oberstein—a formidable man, a splendid tactician and politician that was fiercely hated by many simply because he was not sociable and also probably partially because of his cybernetic eyes. It was a well known fact that people were most of the time afraid of the unknown, and found ways to turn that fear into hatred, and Oberstein’s calm, cold demeanor did not help. Yet still, he found in his superior’s scarce words and numerous actions mercilessness, but his truth was unquestionable and his logic firm. There were many things he was thinking about—they were the rumors mostly—and from them he was able to conclude that Oberstein did not have a family, nor did he intend to make one, and was living with only his dog and butler. Which was rather sad, but understandable for a man that was ready to sacrifice himself for the sake of his nation. 

For three years had he been in his service and never would he think that he would come to admire this man everybody else abhorred; that he would try to understand his actions and analyze his personality; that he would come to understand and appreciate everything this man had ever done. But the fact that his wondering veered from the path of sheer professionalism was not pleasing in the least, as he had begun to wonder about Oberstein’s personal life, his preferences regarding everything he could think of, his habits, and if he possessed the ability to laugh. For, to others he would not be a human being even if he were to be dissected in front of everyone and showed the sinews, muscles, tendons, organs. To him, however, everything proved that he indeed was human. For three years he had been in his proximity as his personal secretary. He could hear him breathe, occasionally sigh, see the sweat upon his forehead; his hearing was so acute that he was able to hear every gulp of coffee or tea his superior would make, with eyes closed, appreciating and savoring the flavor. The back of his hands had prominent veins like everybody else’s hands; and his hands were big and strong, fingers long. The wrinkling on his uniform, its rustling as he moved. And now Ferner was seized by this intense anxiety, fear for this man’s life, now that he had learned of his extraordinariness. It felt almost as an obligation to seize the entirety that was Paul von Oberstein, and so he caught him by surprise (and even himself), as he approached him and stood beside him by the window.

Coldness was monopolizing his body. The darkness of the outside absorbed all the fear he was harboring; the magical skyline in the evening, when the street lights were not yet lit, and he, to his own bewilderment, for he had not intended to do anything of the sort, pressed his lips against the warm, yet unmoving ones. Seconds later he retreated, ashamed of what he had done, Oberstein’s expression of clear shock wavering before his eyes. He was able to elicit a reaction from the man who was rarely moved by anything (or at least who never let it show), albeit such reaction was only accompanied by a small, barely audible grunt. No words of reproach. Only silence to fill the vast room, in which not long ago, Oscar von Reuenthal had died. Perhaps not even this much of a physical contact would mean anything to the one who forfeited all human interaction altogether. But Oberstein did not keep quiet for long. 

“You too, are feeling the change is about to come. You feel apprehensive about it, uncertain of the outcome, so you search for comfort in whatever place you can find. And so it happens that I was the only available choice upon which you wished to relieve your worries. Unconcerned about the gender, in the midst of war and uncertainty, it is not unimaginable.” Oberstein’s voice was flat and analytical. 

Ferner failed to apologize. He was standing stiff, unable to say anything, for he had expected to be reproached, judged for what he had done, and instead, his superior was understanding of the situation. He, personally, was afraid of the change that he only just noticed, the feeling of warmth and closeness, and desire to feel another body against his, although that of a male, that of no other than the Chief Minister of Military Affairs, the feared one, the hated one, the inhuman one. But there was no denying it that his feelings, being as they were, were present. And so, in the darkness of Oberstein’s chambers, hours later, when he had declared in his usual flat, indifferent tone that he did not mind if they became intimate (that insulting indifference that might have been a camouflage, or the only way of Oberstein could express himself, or real indifference—that vague indifference—burned down his ear canals into his brain and heart, and he did not know what to make of it), the Chief Minister was standing before him stiffly as always, slowly and unceremoniously unbuttoning his uniform. Slowly but surely, his stiffness subsided as they kissed deeply and more meaningfully—more like men in want of a physical contact—and Ferner’s mind was on the border of unconsciousness and thoughts full of small realizations. 

That it was he—that man—who he was kissing, tasting the skin of his neck, thinking of years of neglect it had been subjected to; unloved flesh, untouched, and he thought about the ultimate sacrifice of this man that may soon come, and all that it entailed, and was saddened by it. He could not discern if Oberstein had ever had anyone in his life, any love interest or a friend. His movements were strange, more unaccustomed to this much closeness, seeing it as a rather peculiar violation of personal space, rather than something that he eagerly welcomed but was trying to repress. Still he was trying to match Ferner’s pace, who was also confused, but more confident, it seemed. 

This slow unbuttoning of the uniform and shirt felt irksome to the younger man who was getting impatient, and he unbuttoned the remainder of the garments in one swift motion. He was lucky they had not been the old fashioned ones, so he did not tear any, while pushing his superior gently against the wall, touching his exposed chest, a treat to his fingers, this new discovery, kissing deeply. He felt Oberstein’s arm sneak around to gently touch his scalp and draw him nearer. The palm of his hand felt warm and reassuring. The rest came as a memory of which he remembered little, in the haze of exchanged kisses and touches that had been distributed more freely now, their nakedness, their struggle with how and where—but they soon managed—his straddling of his superior, their silent, infrequent sighs and grunts, a calm, serene face of Oberstein who was nearing his climax, with eyes closed, with so much as a slight frown of pleasure. 

He looked much younger asleep than he actually was—forty that year—with his face relaxed and features softer than they usually seemed to be. And when he woke up, he saw him standing by the window, with shirt in disarray and opened, his uniform too, and his hair messy, white fringes mixed with the rest of the brown hair—almost like a lion’s mane but less rich—still sleepy and disoriented. Ferner gasped in a pleasant surprise at the sight, and stood up, striding slightly more confidently now, to the man with whom he had shared the bed the previous night, secretly fearing, however, that Oberstein would refuse him now, that their encounter had been one of a kind. But the Chief Minster granted him yet another intrusion into his private space; the lips felt soft and fresh, his body warm, giving a pleasant fragrance of the product he had been using in the shower, but was still raw from bed and warm, and there was a line on his neck and cheek from sleeping on that side. Ferner reached up to touch the lines. “At this rate, we shall be late,” Oberstein warned quietly, his eyes impassive as always, just as the rest of his face. His voice was the same as always, if a tad softer than usual. The younger nodded in agreement, and went to take a shower. 

It lasted without a fail, throughout all days before that one night, the decisive night for all the fates of the Universe. Ferner found solace in the warmth of Oberstein’s sheets and his soothing presence. The older man was quiet and reserved most of the time. They never exchanged physical contact beyond what was necessary for what they were doing, and talked mostly about the matters of politics and war. Those conversations, too, were kept to a minimum. But the atmosphere did not feel oppressive or threatening. Ferner often felt guilty about the entire situation, battling with self denial and justification, but those doubts were often swiftly melted away by Oberstein’s mere presence, his person. Sometimes Ferner wondered whether he was imposing himself on his superior and if this was what both of them wanted. But with the onset of the night, after all that had to be done was finally done, without a fail, Oberstein would wordlessly lead him to his quarters and initiate the unison of their bodies. What his thoughts were on this, Ferner had no way of telling; whether he was doing his subordinate a favor (which was very unlikely), or was doing it for his own pleasure, though throughout all the years that the youth had known him, he did not express any particular interest in anyone of any gender in any way whatsoever. So, the question was, what was it that had changed his heart? The approaching danger they were both aware of? The desire to hold someone before the moment of truth. Before death. Before the end of the world, perhaps, should it happen. Ferner did not know. 

Seeing Oberstein in disarray was a pleasing sight; his naked form sitting on the edge of the bed, barely awake, his dozing off after they had used up all of their energy; the disheveled hair, the crumpled shirt; his toothbrush and his shampoo; the broad shoulders and wide chest; his morning breath; being taken in the shower—the boldest move of the Chief Minister so far, and surprising—fervently but at the same time slowly, languidly; the weight of his body and its warmth, skin against skin; the smell of Oberstein’s sweat and the taste of his member (he had pressed the Chief Minister of Military Affairs against the wall, his shirt open, hair the way he liked it—the white strands mixing with the brown ones and Oberstein pressing his head against the cold wall, looking at the ceiling and sighing rhythmically, his face calm but radiant—as he was taking him into his mouth). It was the time of happiness and calm, washing away the bitter taste of a working day, riots, quarrels with other admirals, Kaiser’s arrival. A microcosm of their own.

And yet Paul von Oberstein, deliberately or by mistake, was now lying on the sofa, gravely wounded, with his side torn open, exposing the ribs and organs. No. Ferner thought. Not this. “It’s not only hypocrisy, but also a waste of skill and effort to pretend you can help someone who won’t make it,” he said to the doctors. No. He was standing stoically on the side, absorbing the image. Oberstein was in severe pain, but his voice did not waver. The meticulousness of this man was unprecedented. Always in the right. No. No. He could not allow this. Even though there was so little time to do anything. But he yelled at Oberstein anyway, losing his composure, going over to where he was resting. His entire being sunk into despair, but he persisted, and kept his voice high and audible, angry. If not for his personal interest, then for sheer professional admiration, “Hell if I let history forget you! So you will not die today, because your person does not belong only to yourself, but to ones you are leaving behind! And they are not only in your household! There are more of us!” he said, pointing at himself. Oberstein observed him weakly, as he talked to the doctors, in panic, yet in some sort of an order, and presently they brought the stretcher and went around and asked other soldiers about blood types. The mayhem because of the Kaiser’s worsening condition seemed to have halted for a moment, or so was his impression. 

It was late into the next season that he woke up, his entire body sore. Ferner was at his side, looking at nothing in particular. “I suppose I owe you my life now,” he quietly said. His secretary flinched and cast a wide smile full of shiny white teeth upon seeing he was awake. “Had it not been for your stubbornness, and an excessive amount of luck, I would have been long dead.” Ferner gripped his hand firmly. 

“I thought, if they can make prosthetic eyes and limbs, why not muscle tissue? Why not bones, organs even? Are we not living in the time where that was possible? So I did what I could to obtain those materials. It was difficult, but I was able to schedule an operation for you,” he said quietly. It would not be until later that Oberstein learned the entire truth about the efforts of Ferner. About his rapid selling of the house he owned and investing in expensive operations and treatment. About those few days he had spent selling and himself being on the verge to die all that time. How much risk and luck it had taken. And devotion. “Why would you die needlessly, when nobody has ever expressed their gratitude to you? When you would remain anonymous, yet it was you who contributed to this nation the most. Will history be kept in dark, appointing others as greater than yourself,” Ferner spoke with fervor. “I could not allow it.”

“Rear Admiral Ferner,” Oberstein calmly said, “I never sought gratitude or acknowledgment from anyone and I do not particularly care about people’s opinion of me.”

“But you would never be able to see the results of your effort. How people live well now because you took it all on yourself. If not for history, then for yourself,” Oberstein closed his eyes, then opened them again. 

“Once again I thank you for saving me,” was all he said before he, exhausted, went back to sleep. Another thing he had learned was that there was nobody lining up to donate blood for him, or to wait for the news on his condition. Nobody except his secretary, Rear Admiral Anton Ferner. ‘Such an ungrateful bunch, indeed, ‘ he thought to himself, but seeing as how the situation could not be any different, accepted it. Nobody would ever forgive him for making such a commotion when there was the greatest Kaiser ever, just several corridors away from him, on his deathbed. As if he did not matter. As if his advice and actions had been for nothing. As if the Terraists would not plague the Empire had he not handled the situation. He was aware of all of that, and accepted it. He had to, for it was the path he had chosen. 

Months later, the Kaiser’s remaining admirals were obliged to finally visit him. His recovery was taking too long, but he was feeling better by the day. Over the course of time he became accustomed to Ferner’s presence and his awkwardness. Ferner was a good man, he could tell, by the standards of others, and a bit clumsy, by his. But he was unnecessarily caring and gentle and candid. It felt like picking up another dog. He never rejected his advances, for reasons unknown even to himself. Perhaps because of the sense of duty he was feeling toward him, an obligation not to be avoided. But what Mittermeyer accidentally saw when he went to visit was the two men talking quietly, as if in their own world, and that was when, to his utter bewilderment, he saw placidity and kindness on Oberstein’s, otherwise expressionless, strained features.

**Author's Note:**

> I usually like these bittersweet endings, but Oberstein's death crushed me so much that I had to write a happy ending for this character. I hope nobody is out of character and that you will enjoy this piece! Thank you!  
> P.S. Will be proof read later.


End file.
